Death in the Kingdom (11 page)

‘Just my bleedin' luck,' I muttered to myself. Problem was, once the storm had passed through the seas could stay rough for a couple of days. A big two-day blow might mean four days without diving. I wanted to get the business done and get the hell out of there. I checked on the position of the Burmese patrol boat. The long, low, grey vessel was a quarter of a mile away ahead of us, heading into the Loughborough Passage. I could see our escort trawler almost at the point of the island we had moored behind the previous night. I was praying that Tri had cut away to the anchorage point, letting the Burmese carry on. I thought of the big Brownings on the bridge wings and cursed silently. I hoped like hell he had taken the damn things off their mounts and hidden them. Thing was, if it came to a shoot-out between Tri and his thugs and the Burmese, the chances were the patrol boat would lose. Despite its deck gun, a couple of Tri's rockets would blow it out of the water before it could fire a shot.

There was a rumble from below us and Niran's guys started bringing up our anchor. I went up to the bridge and adjusted the co-ordinates on the GPS. Next time we came calling, we would anchor between the wrecks. My stomach had settled again so I risked lighting a cigarette and sat on one of two stools in the tiny glass-fronted cab. Niran stood at the wheel, his right hand on the throttle. As the anchor was lifted into its holding cleats, he pushed the throttle open and eased the wheel into a slow turn to track the passage of the patrol boat.

Our first dive was over. We had found what we had been looking for. Now it was a matter of collecting it but God knows when we would get back there again. The divers who had first discovered the buddha hadn't been able to return to the wrecks, not that it had been their job to do anything much more than verify identities of the ship and sub. Perhaps they had been after the box but had been thwarted by the arrival of the Burmese. If I had had to put money on it, I would have guessed that at least one of the divers probably had the recovery of the box on his dance card. Who would ever know and who would ever tell? Bernard sure as hell hadn't told me.

Would we be back or would another team have to follow us in to complete the job? There were so many factors at work. How long would it be before some recreational divers found the wrecks? The Burmese hadn't really encouraged tourism in that region so far. However, it seemed that they were warming up to the idea of getting foreign currency into the kitty. Money bought tanks, guns and all those things that military regimes liked to have on hand to maintain their status quo. Already there were some dolphin-watching expeditions out of Kawthaung, and other Thai–Burmese ventures into the archipelago were getting the green light. It was ultimately just a matter of time before someone decided to run a major commercial dive operation in the area. So, in reality, time was one commodity that we were possibly going to run out of if the coming storm really hammered us.

Tri had moored further into the bay than the previous night. The Burmese patrol boat hadn't deviated on its run for Kawthaung, for which I gave a sigh of relief. Several Moken craft with dugouts trailing behind were heading that way as well. A large white cruiser had appeared away to our left, coming around the edge of the island that defined the north side of the passage. The white boat was also making a beeline for Kawthaung or Ranong.

‘Dolphin boat,' said Niran. ‘They take tourists to see the dolphins. I can take them to see the dolphins,' he added, laughing. I laughed as well. I couldn't imagine any tourists paying to ride on board the
Odorama
under any pretext, dolphins or not.

Niran eased us towards the shore, going past Tri's boat and getting as close into the lee of the razor-backed island as possible. There would be no rafting up the two craft with a big blow on its way. The anchor was dropped and Niran reversed us hard some twenty or so feet to set the hook deep. It didn't matter if he embedded the tines into solid coral because we had divers aplenty to free them when the storm eventually blew itself out. The last thing we needed was to drag our anchor and end up out in the passage.

The sky was darkening by the second and lightning flashed away to the north. The rumble of distant thunder reached us several seconds later. Niran was giving orders and everything that could be latched shut was being tied down. Our dive gear had been taken below. Hatch covers were being secured. I decided it was Singha time and went into the mess. There was the smell of something spicy being cooked. Noy, the designated chef, was working over a giant wok on one of the galley's two gas rings. While we'd been on the move he'd rigged a trolling line and caught a big mackerel. Steaks were now being fried and a second, smaller wok full of spicy noodles and shredded vegetables was waiting to one side.

‘The condemned men,' I muttered to myself.

Noy gave me a big grin. ‘What you say?'

I realised I'd spoken in English. ‘Smells good,' I said in Thai.

‘Very good,' he agreed with an even bigger grin. And yes, the meal was very good. Very damned good indeed. We ate and washed the food down with Singha and about the time we'd finished, the storm hit. The rain came down in a curtain. Night had fallen, yet it was only three in the afternoon. The sound of the rain on the deck became a roar. Then the wind came howling down on us like a million demented banshees.

11

Stir crazy! It's more than just an evocative phrase, believe me. After three days stuck in the close confines of SS
Odorama
, with the smell of dead fish and fishy bodies and the sound of the shrieking fucking wind howling above me, I was ready to kill someone, anyone, myself included.

‘Tomorrow,' promised Niran. ‘Tomorrow we can go. The sea will be calmer.'
Odorama's
skipper and I were on the bridge. The wind had finally dropped. There was no rain and the white caps both behind us and away to our right were starting to fall away. It was late afternoon and the sun had just managed to burn away the cloud cover. Our gunboat was still in the same position it had been throughout the blow. I could see its crewmembers out on deck, enjoying the fresh air. Some of them, like our guys, had fishing lines down. There would no doubt be something fresh and finned for dinner.

Over the past few days and long nights I had taxed my brain in an effort to maintain whatever sanity I still possessed. I had repeatedly gone over the whole scenario of the box and everything I had to do the moment we hit the water on our next dive. I would retrieve the damned thing and stay long enough to help get the Ruby Buddha on board
Odorama.
Then I would insist we run for Ranong.

I had a built-in radar for things—some called it a bullshit detector—and in the hours of brain-time I'd had over the past few days, I'd come to a few conclusions and raised more questions than answers. I knew Bernard hadn't told me more than he felt I needed to know about this whole deal. That box and its contents were absolute dynamite, political dynamite. That was obvious. But why had our lot been co-opted to get the bloody thing? Why not a submarine full of marine salvage experts and Special Boat Service people? They could mount a hit-and-run, and there would be no way the Burmese navy, such as it was, could detect them or catch them.

So, lying in my bunk listening to the snores, burps and farts of my fellow divers, I concocted my list of answerless questions and questionable conclusions, all of which led back to the former. It was like playing mental rounders.

First amongst my concerns was always the why. Why had we, The Firm, been chosen to pull this damned thing off? Did they want us to attempt it in our usual skin-of-the-fucking-teeth and highly unorthodox fashion, because maybe we weren't meant to succeed? It was a fact that, because of our business and the way it was conducted, we didn't always manage to successfully complete the mission we'd been assigned. A bunch of Special Boat Squadron types, the waterborne SAS and a submarine. That was the obvious option to ensure success.

So if the big boys weren't coming and yes, we were meant to succeed, the next question was why weren't they coming? Was it a matter of detection? The Burmese didn't have technology beyond basic sonar and radar, which were short-range methods at best. The Russian and Western spy satellites zipping around with their sophisticated detection devices knew where most submarines were most of the time. The Russians, the US, our lot and the French were the only main players in this game. But since the great break-up of the Union, the Russians weren't paying that much attention to distant sub-plotting and the like. The French, well, who the hell knew what the bloody French military and naval intelligence outfits were monitoring? But even their satellite access was minimal compared to ours, and especially when compared to that of the US.

The US was the one outfit that could put our lot off sending a submarine on a covert pick-up-and-run operation. With their technology, the Yanks would have the sub's plot on screen from the first turn of their screws. Allies or not, American paranoia ensured that they kept watch on friend, foe and potential foe alike. But if we were trying so hard not to attract their attention by foregoing the obvious means of salvage, it meant that Uncle Sam knew something about this damned box and its contents. Therefore for Sir Bernard and his puppet masters, their desperation to keep this from the Yanks explained the unorthodox, low-key retrieval operation I was fronting. Did they want us to succeed or fail? That was still the twenty-thousand euro question! I would do my damnedest to succeed, even if it was just to piss off Sir Bernard fucking Sinclair, especially if he was relying on my failure.

‘Boat,' said Niran, dragging me from my musings. I followed his outstretched arm. Three or four miles away a large white-hulled cruiser was brushing the remaining white caps aside as it slid through the water at a rate of knots. It was either coming from the direction of Ranong or Kawthaung. ‘Charter boat. Wealthy tourists. Maybe divers,' Niran added quickly, a look of concern suddenly clouding his wrinkled mahogany face as he turned to me. Images of failure and of him once again losing his beloved boat no doubt caused the turmoil I could see reflected in his eyes. I was feeling more than a little of that turmoil myself. At the mention of divers, my mouth had gone bone dry. I suddenly had a very, very bad feeling. Whoever was on board that boat was in a hurry to get somewhere. The sea was still uncomfortable enough to put off any casual leisure cruises. I grabbed the Motorola and called Tri. He answered after two seconds.

‘If that boat anchors anywhere near our dive site, let me know immediately.'

‘Okay,' came the reply.

That was it. I'd already learned that Tri didn't waste unnecessary effort as far as dialogue was concerned. I lit a cigarette. The habit was now no longer a struggle to maintain. I'll give up again when this is over, I promised myself silently, knowing full well that any attempt was going to be more than a struggle. I smoked that fag and followed it with another as the white boat went out of sight behind our sheltering island and passed on up the passage.

Travelling at the same clip the intruding boat had been going when it had vanished from view, I figured it would either be passing or pulling up at our dive site within five minutes. I checked my watch and waited. That five minutes dragged on forever. If the boat stopped over the wrecks, what would we do? But I knew exactly what we'd do. We'd send Tri over there to force them off the mooring. We'd become pirates for the day while we hoisted up the buddha and I retrieved the black box.

‘They have gone around the western tip of the island. They are a kilometre short of the dive zone,' Tri reported. I waited. I didn't believe in coincidence. It wasn't something that happened in my world, and whatever the white boat's role in this scenario, it was a player, not a spectator. Of that I was certain.

‘They are moving on, going around Pila Kyun,' Tri added five minutes later.

‘Keep on going,' I muttered in a prayer to the deities. Was I wrong after all? It had been known to happen, but not often, and not about things like this. Were these guys just tourists or were they after the damned wrecks? I lit another in the endless chain of cigarettes I had been smoking and waited. There was nothing else to do.

‘They have stopped in the bay on the north side of the island,' Tri came back at me.

‘Will they be able to see the dive site from where they are?'

‘No. They are deep in the bay and the hills are high. They may just be a dive party of tourists seeking shelter for the night.'

‘Let's pray that's so,' I replied. I put down the Motorola and left Niran to his bridge. Down in the mess I stood in front of the map. It would soon be dark, and that was some sort of blessing. In my book, no one in his or her right mind would dive at night. If the people on the white boat were after our prize, I was figuring they wouldn't start until daylight and then they would have to zero in on the wrecks first. Did they have that sort of technology with them? If they were bad guys, whoever they were, I was betting they had a side-band sonar unit or similar with which to grid search the area, looking for images of the wrecks. The reef formations would help disguise the sub, but once they spotted the freighter, they'd go down looking. If they were Yanks then they would know that, way back in 1945, three of their planes took out a sub and a freighter in one hit, even if they hadn't known the exact location until now. If that was the case, what little birdie had been singing?

Okay. I was paranoid. That was a plain fact, and that was part of what I got paid for. I had to assume the worst. If the Yanks were in the game then they had the technology, including the unseen stuff—spy satellites zipping round above us. If they were plotting our movements, the only hope for us would be if the satellite co-ordinates of our dive position were broad. There was a fair chance they were. There were only so many satellites up there with full-on search and observation capabilities, most of them American and most of them positioned to fly over potential hotspots and enemies. I was prepared to bet that, in the grand scheme of things, Burma and Thailand didn't represent such hotspots to the Pentagon. I went back to the bridge and grabbed the hand-held. ‘Tri, call if they move. Will you be able to tell if they put out runabouts?'